Painted

The lady who sat opposite me had a slight rasp. She looked over my references as I sweated in silence, with my tights itching behind my knees. There were three radiators in the small living room, chipped and bulky, and all were switched on. I watched as she read, her bulging eyes moving slowly over the paper that was held in her sausage-fat fingers.

She wore a faded black ensemble that looked like it had once been a t-shirt and leggings in a past life. Now, stretched over her bulk, it looked very much like she had just wrapped various pieces of lycra tightly round her frame, and worn them continually. Perhaps, judging from the sweat stains and worn patches, she had also slept in them. Her feet were bare and I noticed that her toenails were painted purple. For a brief moment I wondered if they were in fact dead toenails, gone purple from lack of circulation, ready to drop off at any given moment, but no, they were painted, I could see the sheen.

I sat and looked at her painted toenails, neat and pampered and compared them to mine, which were un-painted and un-manicured.

"So? What do you charge?"

My eyes darted to her face.

"Well Ms. Dempsy," I began, shifting my weight from right buttock to left on the hard chair. "I think it would be about thirty quid all in. That's including the windows, stairs, and washing the kitchen floor." I waited. The obese lady lifted the paper and looked again at my reference. I sat in silence and listened to her wheeze. I looked at her hair, pulled tightly back in an intricate French plait; small wisps at her ears, curling slightly in ringlets. The femininity of it on her large scalp, framing her huge greasy face with its swollen features was almost comical.

"You can start Wednesday." She handed me my references and I stood up to leave. I gave her a bright smile, feeling the droplets of sweat merge together as the skin stretched above my lip.

"Lovely." I chirped. "I'll be here at ten. The first visit normally takes about three hours. I have all my own stuff, but I'll need paying before I start, just so you know, and I only take cash."

Her head wobbled in a nod and I left. She didn't see me out.

Three years ago, I'd written my letter of resignation to the office manager. I'd written honestly. The letter was two sides of A4. It took me three hours to perfect, and I kept a copy. My last line was the same as the first. It stated that I wanted more 'freedom.'

Wednesday I stood outside Ms. Dempsy's front door; bucket in hand, full of my cleaning utensils and listened. I'd knocked twice. I could hear a muffled sound of movement and mentally envisaged the large Ms.Dempsy making her way to the door. I saw her feet bury themselves in the carpet, spreading under the strain. Her purple toenails almost hidden by the rising flesh as she took her tiny straining steps; her feet squashing and splitting on the floor, pink and fleshy, like a pair of raw chicken breasts.

The door opened, and a small, rakish girl of about ten looked at me.

"You the cleaner?"

I nodded. She stood aside and I walked in. We looked at each other for a moment, and then she stuffed her hand into her jeans pocket and produced three tenners.

She held them in her fist, a small red fist with dry skin flaking in patches. She had small knuckles of white with blood-red creases, and sores that had been scratched on the back of her hand leaving little mounts of clotted blood. Her wrists were more of the same, and under the sleeve of her t-shirt I could see red and sore and scratching that looked as if it went all the way up, and the rash re-appeared on her neck.

She unclenched her fist and the tenners were shown to me as if she were about to perform a magic trick, she held them out in a fan, before taking two off and stuffing the third back in her pocket.

"The price I agreed with your mother was thirty." I said not taking the offered money.

"She's not my mum, and you get twenty up front and the other tenner once you're done."

I usually don't do deals, full money straight off or nothing, but who could argue with a ten year old with eczema? I took two tenners and asked why she wasn't in school. She didn't reply but shrugged her shoulders and walked into the living room. Following her I noticed the heat. The living room was empty but for the girl. She was sat on the couch drawing into a large A3 pad that dwarfed her small body. As I cleaned, she continually leaned forward and stretched out her tiny hand to work on the paper, rubbing in charcoal with her little red finger with nails bitten so low they barely existed.

"What you drawing?" I continued to polish. There was no answer from her so I decided to go and look for myself. When I saw her work I was a little taken back. This small girl with her bony hands and flaky skin was gifted. On the page was a unicorn, magnificently captured mid jump, the muscles superbly defined in it's flight and riding on its back, its face filled with exhilaration was a fairy. Although only partly done, it was astounding. Her use of colours was perfection, all harmonizing on the page reflecting the subject matter while also adding a depth of reality to it.

"Did you draw this?"

"It's yours for a tenner."

I looked at her small eyes, there were dots of dried mucus in each corner and her eyelids were red.

"I'll have it."

Her grin split her face apart. "But you have to finish it." I warned. "I want the sky completely finished, and the wood in the background."

She nodded eagerly.

"Oh, don't worry this'll be finished by the time you're finished." She set back to work with fresh enthusiasm, her small hands working overtime. Her small teeth biting her bottom lip as she rubbed and smoothed. Sensing her sulkiness had passed, I ventured my question again.

"So, why aren't you in school?" She shrugged.

"Hate it."

"Why?"

"What's it to you?"

"Look, I'm a paying customer of yours now. I want to know why you're drawing here and not in school. Because if you're skiving, I don't want my money paying for it."

"You've bought it now, can't go back on that."

I raised my eyebrows and stood like a cartoon character, hands on my hips, duster and polish hanging out of each hand, wanting for her explanation.

"I hate it. They're all thick in that school and the teachers are…narcissistic." She looked at me, waiting for my reaction.

"Who taught you that word?"

She smiled, and went back to rubbing the paper.

"Shelia."

"Ms Dempsy?"

"She teaches me."

"So where is she now?"

"Working."

"Working?"

"In there. On the computer. I'm her graphic artist."

I was still stood in my pantomime dame pose. Slowly, without wanting to appear too nosey I began to dust the television.

"So what does…Shelia do on the internet?"

I heard her scratching. Her bitten nails digging into the skin to get some relief.

"Telling people what'll happen. Shelia's a psychic."

"What?"

"She tells people their fortune over the internet. Used to have them coming to the house, but it got bad, y'know, they weren't listening to what she was saying, just staring at her instead." I remembered my thoughts on her toenails and plait.

"So now she does it all by computer, on internet, and I'm her graphic designer."

When the manager had read my letter of resignation, he'd wished me 'all the luck in the world.' I'd replied that I didn't need it; I was confident and sure of my success. How naive I'd been. With a column in the local paper and some articles sold to magazines, I'd believed I could make a living out of being freelance journalist. I thought I just needed time. Time I didn't have as I was working in the office. I had no experience, no qualifications, just enthusiasm. After a year and a half of rejections and extended loans, I found myself one step away from losing everything. I remember the letter I'd written to my creditors. I had stated that I would be unable to make the repayments and offered a much smaller monthly amount for a longer period of time. The letter was a formality. It had taken me fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to admit I was a failure. It was the last thing I had written.

I cleaned Shelia's house for nine months. In that time I bought ten pieces of art; all by a young artist which was ten year old Lisa. I didn't see Shelia for the first three months, she stayed in the other room, working when I was working, but eventually, with Lisa's insistence she came into the living room.

We never discussed her obesity or psychic abilities, or Lisa's truancy or eczema, or the relationship between them. We discussed television soaps and the weather. And when Lisa was in a make-shift tutorial, we discussed the difference between nouns and verbs, Pythagoras theorem and isosceles triangles.

It suited us all. I began to enjoy my cleaning visits there, sometimes staying much longer than necessary. I began to relax.

One day, whilst I was scrubbing the toilet. There was a thud. A loud thud that wobbled the crystal droplets on the glass light fitting. It was one of the days when Lisa wasn't there. One of the days when she was at school and on these days Shelia kept her distance. Staying in the back bedroom into which I was never allowed her presence only marked by the tapping of a keyboard. The thud had come from the back bedroom and before I opened the door, I had an idea what to expect.

I gave a timid pat on the door before walking in. The word 'Shelia' fading in my breath as I saw her. The stool, on which she had been sitting in front of her computer, had collapsed, and Shelia was lying on top of broken MDF, her arms and legs flailing. I ran over to her to help her up. I pulled her into a sitting position and we looked at each other. I didn't know what to say. I was panting slightly and embarrassed, looked away.

My eyes roamed round her bedroom, and my breath caught in my throat at what I saw. Her bedroom was larger than expected with a huge king-size bed in the middle. But what made my mouth open slightly in shock were the walls. On every available space a painting had been stuck. They covered the walls and the ceiling; they overlapped and merged in a crazy display of colour and shapes. Lisa's paintings were everywhere. Fairies, goblins, dwarfs, landscapes, unicorns, stars, moons, everywhere.

Sheila was trying to stand. Her wheezing brought my attention back to her. Helping as much as I could, we got over to the bed where we sat. I was afraid she would cry, her chin was wobbling, and I could understand her humiliation, made worse by my silence. I turned back to her walls and the huge collection of colour.

After admitting I was a failed writer, I couldn't return to my old nine to five in the office. I wasn't going to ask my old boss for my old job. Explain where 'freedom' had taken me, tail between my legs, so I took something else. I became a cleaner. By some cruel intervention, my very first cleaning job was in an office. As I polished the desks on that quiet night, I came across one that was cluttered with photographs. And not photographs of families or pets, but photographs of sky, and landscapes and wide open spaces. They weren't framed, some had been ripped out of magazines, and they were all over. Whenever I cleaned that office I took particular care over that desk. I polished it for as long as I could.

Sheila began to laugh. It wasn't loud or roaring more like a girlish giggle, and at that, more than her fall, I laughed too. We sat and chuckled on her bed until our laughs trailed off into sighs.

"Knew that was going to happen." Shelia said looking at the stool. "Felt it wobble for days, they can only take so much."

"Never mind" I felt around in my mind for some words of consolation that wouldn't sound patronizing. "I'll get you another one."

"Would you?" Her eyes were direct. This was a serious request.

"Yeah, course. Can get them from Argos. I'll bring it with me next time" We shared a smile, and a moment's silence, listening to the quiet hum of her computer.

"Do you want to know your fortune?" Sheila asked, and I immediately thought about my past.

"Can I ask you something Shelia?" I said. She raised her plucked eyebrows and her forehead puckered. "Do you ever tell your own future? Or Lisa's?"

She looked at me for a while, looked deep into my eyes, behind my eyes and further. She smiled.

"Never." She said firmly. "It takes away all the fun, don't you think?"

"How do you know Lisa?"

Shelia took a slow breath in and looked away.

"Why do you ask?"

"Nosey." I smiled. "Coz, I'm a nosey old cleaner." I tried to diffuse her concern and realised I really did want to know why this girl came to visit this woman instead of going to school.

"I knew her mum." Shelia said flatly. "Last year, her mum, she was a volunteer for an advocacy group. With me not getting out much, she used to come round and" Shelia looked down at her figure. "Help me. Y'know visit places for me, on my behalf. I read her fortune a couple of times, as a thank you. She brought Lisa with her on occasion, y'know how Lisa can be with school, and we all got on. That was before Mark, her fella and before the drugs. Now Lisa comes here without her mum - her eczema flairs up when things happen at home, and school, so she comes here. - but it's not charity, look" Her hand waves about the room. "She's a light to me. And I'm a help to her - she can come her any time, I don't pester." I smiled warmly, hiding my opinions.

On my last visit cleaning that office I stole something. It was the only thing I've ever stole in my life. It was off the desk with the pictures. It was a small one, not even a postcard size and it was a picture of the desert. It showed miles of sculptured sand rolling around and leading to nowhere. But in the far right of the picture there was a tree. I don't know what kind of tree it was to grow in the desert, but it was dotted with small bits of green. I stole it and put it in my purse, it had been tucked away in there since. I rarely looked at it, forgotten it was there. But as we sat on the bed, me and Sheila, for some reason I was reminded of it. I thought about taking it out of my purse and sticking it on my bedroom wall. And I thought about removing the dust jacked on my PC and a story I would begin to write.